She would never forget the first night he came to her.

It was the first day at a new school. Again. Daddy said that this town would be good for them. That he could make it big here. He always said that. Ever since Mama had died eight years before he had been saying that. Never staying in one place long enough to call it a home.

She was never a good student. Oh, she was smart, but she resented confinement and discipline. Before she had completed the fifth grade, the name "Charlotte Foster" was written in dark ink on every naughty list in every school she had ever attended.

She promised herself that she would be good. That she would make her Daddy proud. But the restless beast in her spirit never allowed her any peace.

That day, she had come back to their rented home with dragging feet, after being kept after classes. She opened the door quietly, took off her shoes, and went into the kitchen.

"How was school?" Daddy asked. He didn't look at her. He kept staring down at the half-empty bottle in his fist, and the half-dozen others strewn about.

She drew closer to him, longing for a look, a word, anything to make her feel like he noticed her.

"Well?" he demanded when she didn't reply.

"It was fine, Daddy," she said quietly.

He nodded, but didn't reply, didn't look up from his dissipation.

The rejection stung just as much as it always did. Through a blur of unshed tears, she ascended the narrow stairs to her small room on the second floor. She peeped through her sister's door as she passed it. Jane was curled up under the covers, fast asleep. She had been sick lately, and was still recovering.

Feeling empty and alone, Charlotte drew her bedroom door closed behind her. She turned on a light and glanced at the clock. Seven o'clock. She rooted through her backpack and emerged with homework and a candy bar left over from lunch. Most of the other kids in her grade five class had mothers to pack their lunches and make their suppers when they went home, but Charlotte was used to caring for herself.

Curling up on her bed, she perused her assignments, scribbled at some of them half-heartedly, and stuffed them back in her bag before an hour was up. Discarding her clothes in a corner, she pulled on an over-sized T-shirt that served as pyjamas, brushed her teeth and hair, and turned out the light before diving under the covers.

She was wandering in the strange place between dreams and reality when a sound made her eyes fly open. Sitting up in bed, she froze as she made out the shadowy silhouette of a man standing in front of her bed. The full moon shone through the window behind him, illuminating his figure in a pale, cold light. Charlotte could not find breath to call out, or strength to run, but sat immobilized as the figure stepped towards her. As he drew close, the light shifted and suddenly his features were visible.

He had black hair, which fell like raven feathers to his broad shoulders. His lips and skin were pale, pale as the moonlight shining on the floor, and his eyes were a pale green, like the color of sea foam. He was dressed in an ordinary T-shirt and jeans, yet the manner of his bearing made them seem very unordinary.

Charlotte sat breathless, fear and wonder battling for dominance within her. For long moments they stared at each other, silent. Finally, she found her voice.

"Are you a vampire?" Her voice quivered slightly as she spoke.

He drew even closer, leaning over her as he answered. "What if I am?"

He spoke softly, his voice refined, educated, with a touch of huskiness and an English lilt to it.

She stared up at him with wide eyes, until finally he smiled, a brilliant smile that took her off guard. He sat slowly on the edge of her bed, his eyes never leaving her face.

"What's your name?" he asked, his tone still gentle.

"What's yours?" she countered. "And why are you here?"

He was silent, gaze searching hers as he slowly reached up and brushed a stray lock of auburn hair off her forehead. His fingers were icy cold, yet soothing, and Charlotte felt herself slowly relax, a wave of exhaustion overcoming her.

"Sleep, young one," he murmured as she lay back down and nestled her head into her pillow. He pulled her covers up and stood and turned as if to leave.

"You never told me your name," she said sleepily.

He turned, his pale features eerie in the moon's cold light. She barely heard his answer as she slipped into the wasteland of dreams, but one word played on the corners of her thoughts all through the night.

"Loki."